Winter
by Isil
Summary: It's winter in Narnia, and Edmund thinks. Slash, Incest, PE. R&R please :


Title: WinterAuthor: Isil   
Rating: PG  
Pariring: Peter/Edmund  
Warnings: Incest, bad english  
Disclaimer: Not mine, fortunately for them! Forgive the abuse of English, it's not my mother tongue. Concrit is very much appreciated, flames are laughed at.

**Winter **

It's winter in Narnia and Edmund hates it. He hates the cold, the biting wind and the blinding whiteness of snow. He hates it, and he makes sure everyone in Cair Paravel knows it, even though he doesn't mean to. Or perhaps he does. He's not sure, sometimes. He fears Edmund the traitor, the one who sold his siblings for sweets, the coward who bowed down in fear to save his life is still lurking somewhere in his mind, craving for Turkish Delights and the warmth of the Witch's fur coat. Edmund hates winter because in winter, he hates himself.

It's winter in Narnia, and Edmund is lonely. Peter is busy being a King, and as Magnificent as he can be, he doesn't have the power to split himself in two to play babysitter to his brother. Susan is busy being a Gentle hostess to their winter visitors, making them feel at home, more than they could ever be in their own homes. Lucy is busy helping everyone Valiantly, feeding the hungry, giving warmth to the chilled, smiling to the sad. And that leaves Edmund by himself, because it's Just too cold to train, to hunt, to travel or to sail and there's nothing else he can do when his brother and sisters are busy being more Just than he is. Edmund hates winter, because in winter, he feels useless.

It's winter in Narnia, and Edmund is restless. He tosses in bed, squirms on his throne, paces in his office and makes a nuisance of himself to everyone. But no one says anything, because they _know_. And that, too, makes Edmund restless. He wishes he could just go out, take Philip and shoot through the snowy plains at full gallop, until they're both breathless with cold and exhaustion, so that maybe, when they come back home, he can sleep. Edmund hates winter, because in winter, he feels trapped.

But Peter won't let him leave, though he must know Edmund is not really needed here, and surely, a few hours wouldn't hurt. No, the High King won't have any of it. "Snowstorms, Ed," he says. There's a tightness in his eyes a slight frown marring his regal face. And so Edmund falls silent, because he knows Peter that much and it's not his fault anyway. He turns to leave his brother alone, and he wishes his pants had pockets to put his hands in, so that he could sulk and play the part of the brat again. Then maybe Peter would scowl, get up and shout at him like he used to do, instead of just looking at him with this frown or this disappointed glance.

It's when he's with Peter that Edmund hates himself, feels useless and trapped the most, because he wishes Peter were the one to chase those feelings away with a smile, a touch or a kiss. Except that's not proper, they're boys, kings and brothers after all and Edmund suddenly realizes it's always winter in his heart. Winter, cold, harsh, fruitless, hopeless and he could go on forever, except he doesn't want to.

So, he thinks, if he is Winter, then Susan is Autumn, beautiful, sometimes warm and sometimes cool, dark hair like the earth under the fallen leaves, red dresses and green eyes like the trees on the hills, Lucy is Spring, always blooming, always giving and loving, and with a pretty smile bright like the morning sun, and Peter is Summer, almost blinding in his brightness, almost stifling in his warmth, but loved for the same reasons and for those blue eyes like the cloudless sky or the purest pool. To Edmund it's the most fitting description, because he always feels like drowning in those eyes and what a sweet death it would be…

He's almost at the door now and he's having foolish thoughts, like, maybe if Peter smiled, he'd just melt and that would be even a sweeter way of dying and he feels so stupid he almost giggles. Edmund thinks he's going crazy and he's even hearing things, now, as he puts his hand on the doorknob. He hears steps behind him and Peter calling his name, but it can't be, since Peter is busy. It can't be, except there's a hand on his shoulder, turning him around and he looks up, wants to ask what's wrong, but he can't because Peter is… Peter is…

And when Edmund can think again, he blinks and his lips move but make no sound. Maybe, he thinks, maybe Peter kissed his voice away, and that's all right. He finds himself smiling as his brother babbles something about him looking cute and his freckles looking like snowflakes on his cheeks and how his dark curls stand out against the snow and he feels like he should spare both of them and kiss Peter's voice away, too. And he does just that.

Winter, Edmund realizes, is not endless.

END.


End file.
